


Just Another Day

by mrs_d



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (AKA Pancakes & PTSD), Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky's birthday, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-02 23:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10230410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: You survived,Bucky thinks dully, staring at his reflection in the mirror.Happy fucking birthday, old man.





	

_You survived,_ Bucky thinks dully, staring at his reflection in the mirror. _Happy fucking birthday, old man._

Not one hair on his head is grey; even his stubble’s still dark. Somewhere in the quagmire of his memory, he can hear someone — his sister maybe? — tease him about getting a five o’clock shadow by noon. He thinks that maybe he liked it, though. Looking older had its benefits when he was sixteen and trying to find a job because his dad’s back was shot, and times were tough.

 _Ha,_ he thinks. He didn’t even know, then, what tough was. He’d give anything not to know now.

 _But you survived_ , Shondra told him yesterday. Shondra tells him that a lot, to the point where he can hear her voice repeat it in his head, and it’s kind of annoying.

 _But that’s not fair,_ he chastises himself. It’s not Shondra’s fault. Not anyone’s fault, except maybe HYDRA, but it’s definitely not hers. She’s been nothing but patient with him, waiting until he needs a push, then nudging him into the hard stuff. And when it gets too much — when he’s shaking and there’s an ache in the center of his chest that he isn’t sure is ever gonna go away — she throws him a lifeline, lets him tug himself back to shore.

She’s saved his life. A few times over by now, probably. A few times more than he deserves. 

There’s a knock at the door, quiet. It’s Sam. Bucky recognized his tread in the hall a second ago, without meaning to — awareness is an old habit that he can’t quite shake, especially not on bad days, which this one is shaping up to be.

But Sam doesn’t know that, so Bucky picks up his comb and calls for him to come in.

“Morning, birthday boy,” Sam greets him. “I thought you were sleeping in.”

Bucky shrugs, runs the comb through his hair. “You know me,” he says, as nonchalantly as he can.

Sam frowns; he isn’t buying it. He never does. He crosses the room and comes to stand behind Bucky at the dresser, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his bare shoulder.

His right shoulder, of course. His left is still... well.

“I’m all right,” he says, to try and soothe Sam’s worry. “Just tired is all.”

“That’s why you were supposed to sleep in,” Sam reminds him.

Bucky smiles. The man in the mirror almost looks happy. “Couldn’t sleep with all the racket you two were making downstairs.”

His tone is still a few shades south of normal, but Sam looks up, catches Bucky’s eye in the reflection. “Just be glad I kept Steve away from the stove,” he says, and Bucky’s smile becomes a little less rigid.

“Some things never change,” he says fondly — or as close to fondly as he can get right now.

“Come on,” says Sam, pressing a kiss to the side of Bucky’s throat and breaking away. “Breakfast’s waiting for us.”

“Okay,” Bucky replies. He sets the comb down, glances at the dresser drawer that he opened when he got out of bed twenty minutes ago and couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted to get dressed — his first sign that something was wrong. “Should I—?”

“Only if you want to,” says Sam before he can even finish the question. “It’s your birthday, man, wear what you want.”

 _That isn’t helpful,_ Bucky thinks, and when Sam turns around he realizes that he’s said the words out loud.

“Just stay in your PJs, Bucky,” Sam says. “It’ll be fine.”

Bucky nods, an inexplicable — no, it’s explicable, he just doesn’t want to go there right now — relief washing through him. He can do this. He survived. Today won’t be any different.

But it is different, he realizes, when he gets to the kitchen. Of course it’s different, it’s his birthday, and it’s Steve. Steve who never could do anything halfway, Steve who needs a pararescue with wings to keep him grounded, and a brainwashed ex-assassin to— well, Bucky’s not quite sure what good he is anymore, or why either of them keep him around.

And there’s the brooding again. Bucky tries to shake it off, tries to smile at the streamers, the presents, the platters of food that Steve’s balancing on his forearms.

“Steve,” Sam starts to say, but Steve’s got that look in his eyes, the same look that’s been there since they were kids, that look that says that Bucky must have hung the moon and at least half the stars as well — Bucky’s never been able to live up to that look.

“Happy birthday,” Steve sing-songs. “What do you want to do first, Buck? Food or presents? Your choice.”

Bucky stares at him. Uncomprehending. He cannot make it make sense, and his head hurts from trying. Steve’s smile is faltering, it’s too late, his lips are starting to form a word— no, a name. The name that still feels like an overstretched sweater sometimes. It should fit, and he knows it used to, but—

Steve is waiting, he’s not getting an answer, Bucky was supposed to have spoken by now. He was supposed to have — what is he supposed to do? His eyes rove around the room— there is food, there are gifts, and Steve’s waiting— it’s too much, he can’t, he _can’t_ —

Strong, warm hands are on him, voices in his ear, someone talking in a low drone — _You’re okay, I’m sorry, just take it easy, I got you_ — he has enough time to realize he’s moving before his calves hit something soft and his ass follows, the surface under him creaking and shifting, and the hands are back — not just hands, but warm bodies that enfold him, shelter him on either side, smelling like home and comfort, and he can breathe again, when did he stop breathing?

At some point, he opens his eyes — he didn’t know they were closed — to find he’s in the living room, on the couch across from the fish tank. Bubbles and Jaws are chasing each other around the haunted house, while Sméagol watches from the reeds.

“Did you feed them this morning?” Bucky asks. His voice sounds like it comes from far away, and he isn’t sure who he’s talking to.

“I did,” Steve replies quietly from Bucky’s left. “I’m sorry, Buck. I should’ve noticed— Sam started to tell me, so— and I see it now, but—” His hands, which were kneading gently at the scars around the base of what’s left of Bucky’s arm, go abruptly still. “I’m just gonna stop talking.”

“Yeah, right,” Bucky says, raspy like there’s the ghost of a laugh somewhere in his lungs. Either that or leftover cigarette smoke, which— it’s been years, but sometimes he wonders. “Do they still make Lucky Strikes?”

“I think so,” Steve says, at the same time that Sam says, “Yeah.”

Bucky nods. He’s not sure he wants them — not sure he wants anything, since his mind feels like it’s miles from earth, untethered and floating, barely able to form words, let alone express a direct wish. Sam and Steve don’t seem to mind. Bucky thinks that maybe he’d float away, too, if they weren’t touching him.

But his body has other plans. An unexpected shiver runs through him, and Sam half-turns to grab the blanket that’s folded across the back of the sofa. He drapes it across Bucky and gets to his feet, bending over to tuck it into the slight gaps between his thigh and Steve’s.

“I’ll get the food,” he says softly. “You need to eat.”

“Okay,” says Bucky. His voice sounds less mechanical now, which is a relief.

Steve nudges nearer. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

Bucky presses against his solid warmth, closes his eyes again. “Not your fault,” he manages.

“Just a bad day, I guess,” says Steve.

That’s a relief, too. Bucky nods.

When Sam returns with a plate of reheated pancakes, heaped with sliced strawberries and chocolate whipped cream, Bucky smiles. He doesn’t have a mirror handy, but he thinks it probably looks more natural than it did before — maybe even happy.

“There you are,” Sam says when he sees it, and Bucky smiles wider.

Steve spears a strawberry, holds it in front of Bucky’s mouth. “Go ahead, Buck,” he says.

Bucky takes it, chews and swallows. He keeps smiling as Sam and Steve take turns feeding him and each other. When the pancakes are gone, Steve gathers a dollop of leftover whipped cream on his finger and pokes Sam’s nose, and Bucky leans over without thinking to lick it off.

This, of course, leads to Sam returning the favor, and Bucky hears himself laugh.

 _You survived_ , he thinks again, as Steve takes the empty plate from his lap, replaces it with a mug of coffee that’s been prepared the way he likes it — black with lots of sugar.

“Happy birthday, Bucky,” Sam says, and Steve echoes the sentiment in his other ear.

“Happy birthday,” Bucky whispers, when they both leave the room to get his presents. “I survived.”


End file.
